


Pomegranate Seeds, Winter Evenings

by edelweissroses



Series: Green Meadows, Dark Skies [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Autism, Autistic Newt Scamander, Childhood Trauma, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Credence Barebone is a LeStrange, Demisexual Newt Scamander, Established Relationship, Established Relationship Newt Scamander/Credence Barebone, Happy Credence Barebone, Intensely Requited Love, Lesbian Tina Goldstein, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Lots of plot, M/M, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves is a Snarky Bastard, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Credence Barebone, Probably more tags to come knowing me, Protective Tina Goldstein, Requited Love, Romance, Social Anxiety, long story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-10-24 18:45:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edelweissroses/pseuds/edelweissroses
Summary: He was here. He was alive. He was okay.So why did it still feel like everything was falling apart?He gripped the marble counter and felt another wave of nausea threatening to wash over him. He was just about to empty the contents of his stomach for a second time when he felt a fluttering against his fingers.Newt looked down.And the paper butterfly flew back up to his shoulder, allowing his undivided attention to rest on Credence hovering worriedly nearby.Newt gazed into those haunting black eyes of his and reached forward. Their scarred hands folded together, fingers entwining with practiced familiarity as if they’d done this a hundred times before.Because they had.Credence smiled, gentle and understanding, and squeezed.Reminding him that he was not alone.





	1. Preface - The Aftermath

_My dearest Leta,_

Newt frowned at the parchment and scratched out the introduction, writing underneath:

_Mlle. LeStrange,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health—_

No, no that wouldn’t do either.

It was now or never. Newt had been putting this off for months, trying through sheer force of will and stubborn refusal of reality to keep the world that he had gotten used to calm and unchanging, but time was running short. They would be moving soon. This was his last chance to reach out and, if he didn’t do this now, he would only come to regret it later. If he didn’t write this letter, he would be hurting the two people he cared for the most in the world.

Leta LeStrange.

Slytherin, daring, and loyal.

She was his oldest companion. The person that Newt told everything because they’d been through everything together. The world had always been their battlefield. And yet, now it felt like the world knew more about his business than she did.

But how does one go about telling their closest friend that they had found their long-lost brother, much less that they were in love with them?

Newt set aside his quill and buried his face behind his hands. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t _good_ at doing things like this. He barely knew how basic relationships worked let alone how to fix a broken one. This task was better suited for someone more sociable like Theseus or blunt like Hortencia.

Not Newt, whose only skills involved wrangling Nifflers and getting into trouble.

Something fluttered against his hands. Newt jumped and cautiously lifted his head.

It was just a butterfly.

A pretty, ivory-colored butterfly crawling across his fingertips.

“Hello, you,” Newt smiled at Prudence and flipped over his palms, “What are you doing here?”

Prudence nestled inside, antennae wriggling, and rubbed her tiny paper legs soothingly across his scars. Newt flinched, the smooth lines shining silver in the light.

Newt was used to the eccentricities of his body. He collected scars and blemishes in a similar manner to how normal wizards collected chocolate frog cards or stamps. Every mark told a story and he normally wore them with the utmost pride. But these ones…

They told of horrors that he’d much rather forget.

Placing the paper butterfly upon his shoulder, Newt took back his quill and wrote.

_Leta,_

_I’m scared._

_I feel it more and more with each passing day. The last thing you said to me echoes in my mind. They are a constant from which I cannot escape. There’s never a moment where I don’t remember the anger in your eyes, the shaking of your hands, the tears running down your face. Will I ever have the chance to apologize? Can we ever fix what’s broken between us?_

_Do you remember when were kids? We wouldn’t go a week without writing each other over summer break. Mum swore that if she saw your owl pecking at the window one more time, she’d have a fit. So you started sending frogs instead. Mum still can’t look at a toad the same._

_It’s been two years since I last heard from you._

_I miss you._

_I’ve been on so many adventures since then. I wish you could’ve joined me in New York. Remember that Chinese restaurant you talked about all the time during fourth-year? I visited it. It’s still there. They remembered you the instant I mentioned your name. They still have your drawings hanging up in their kitchen, you know. I never knew you liked yellow so much._

_Madame Huang sends her love, and her dumpling recipe._

_I was in America to return a Thunderbird. To think, that is where this all began. At the time, I was more concerned with my Niffler getting loose in a bank than I was with the capture of Grindelwald. And yet, here we are…_

_I’ve made so many wonderful friends this past year. Me, of all people. There’s the Muggle named Jacob that makes the most fantastic pastries. Yes, better than the ones at Fournier’s. I met a pair of American witches too. I think you’d get along well with Tina. I became friends with a Kraken named Hope and a gentle lariosauro. And I… I fell in love._

Newt paused.

_I want you to meet him, Leta. For more reasons than one._

_I want to hear your opinion. I want you to approve of him. Credence—his name is Credence—is my best friend and, because he’s my best friend, I want him to meet my other best friend._

_And that’s you, Leta. Always have been, always will be._

_Oh, there’s so much that I want to tell you! My hand is shaking with all that remains unspoken, desiring to spill every secret with a single brushstroke. But, I must exhibit restraint. Everything that I want to say—everything that must be said—cannot be expressed within a single letter, and nor should it be._

_We need to talk._

_Face-to-face. No more hiding, no more avoiding. I’ll be in Paris soon and I hope to see you there._

_I miss having you in my life. I miss being a part of yours. I don’t want to leave this realm regretting that I never fixed this bridge between us. The thought of losing you scares me more than dying ever could._

Newt’s quill hovered over the paper, his hand frozen.

_Tha-thump._

His throat ran dry.

_Tha-thump._

Newt loosened his bowtie, letting the ribbon fall to the floor. He could barely hear the sound of rushing footsteps over his own heartbeat as he quickly unbuttoned his collar.

_Tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump._

The room was closing in. His chair was too soft, too comfortable. Newt wanted nothing more than to throw out every cushion and pillow here than to endure this torture for one more agonizing second—

“Newt, I’m here.”

Credence.

Oh Merlin, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not again.

“You’re at home in your bedroom, sunshine. Your Mother and Theseus are right outside. I can get them if you need them,” that beautiful voice was so soft, so soothing, “You’re safe and alive. There’s nothing here that’s going to hurt you.”

“Credence—” he croaked.

“I’m here, Newt.”

Newt blindly reached for his hand. Rough yet gentle fingers entwined with his.

“Bathroom,” he gasped, “I need—I need—”

One room quickly dissolved into another. Newt ripped himself from Credence and lurched towards the bathroom sink, gripping the marble counter with such urgent desperation that his knuckles turned bone white. His stomach heaved, emptying his lunch into the basin.

Everything was _too soft_ _too soft too soft—_

“Credence, can you—” Newt swallowed down a wave of nausea, “Can you get my shoes?”

“Already on it.”

Newt rested his forehead against the cool mirror, lifting each foot as Credence slipped off his boots.

“You’re wearing the socks I got you for Christmas.”

Newt almost smiled.

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re also on the wrong feet.”

“Funny how that happens.”

Credence quietly laughed and slipped off the offending apparel, stuffing them inside his empty boots. Newt wriggled his toes, now freed, against the tile floor. It was cold, hard, and smooth. The complete opposite of soft and the place where comfort was synonymous with Hell.

He was here. He was alive. He was okay.

So why did it still feel like everything was falling apart?

He gripped the marble counter and felt another wave of nausea threatening to wash over him. He was just about to empty the contents of his stomach for a second time when he felt a fluttering against his fingers.

Newt looked down.

And the paper butterfly flew back up to his shoulder, allowing his undivided attention to rest on Credence hovering worriedly nearby.

Newt gazed into those haunting black eyes of his and reached forward. Their scarred hands folded together, fingers entwining with practiced familiarity as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

Because they _had._

Credence smiled, gentle and understanding, and squeezed.

Reminding him that he was not alone.


	2. Lonely, Oh So Lonely

“…Fir wood, phoenix feather core… 10 ½ inches and reasonably springy,” Ollivander hummed, rubbing his stubbled chin, “A survivor’s wand… powered by the essence of creature caught in an endless cycle between life and death. It’s curious, really. When I made this wand, I thought to myself that it would be a nice match to an Auror… or one of the boys sent out to the war-fronts.”

The wandmaker frowned.

“You’ve been through a lot this past year, haven’t you, Mr. Scamander?”

“Could say that,” Newt flipped over the wand, “Are you absolutely certain that you can’t fix the old one? I’m sure I could work something out with the bank—”

“My boy,” Ollivander interrupted for the hundredth time that day, no doubt tired and annoyed by how many times he could ask the same question, “I’m afraid it’s shattered beyond repair.”

“Don’t do well with change…” Newt mumbled, flipping his new wand over and over and over again, hoping against all hopes that maybe eventually his fingers would slip into all the right notches instead of feeling all… _wrong._

“I don’t know,” he said, “Maybe I was just imagining the warmth. Now that I think about it, it does get awfully stuffy around this time of year. That must be it. Maybe we could take another look at that batch of Cedars—”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Scamander,” Ollivander interrupted again, “Not the other way around.”

“I know, but maybe—”

“You’re kindred spirits. You and your wand,” he continued regardless of Newt’s continued attempts in trying to talk his way into making the impossible possible, “There’s much for you to learn from each other. All you need to do is listen.”

“What if it’s not the right fit thought?” Newt swallowed, quiet and uncertain, “What if… I’m not the right fit?”

“Then you come back and we’ll try out those Cedar wands again,” Ollivander smiled, “But take it from someone who’s been doing this far longer than he can remember: give the wand a chance. I know that it can never replicate the connection you had with your first, but, in time, maybe that won’t matter as much.”

Newt looked down at his wand.

There wasn’t much for him to complain about, really. Its simple elegance, the smooth lines arching downwards ever-so-slightly and the mother-of-pearl embellishments lining the handle made it resemble the first so much that it was scary how similar they were. If he couldn’t have his old wand back, then this one should’ve been the perfect substitute. And yet…

He breathed. In and Out.

And gave Ollivander an awkward smile.

“Thank you. I’ll give it a go.”

Newt exited the shop with a simple farewell and hovered upon the precipice. He stared up into the summer sky and squinted. Not a single cloud was to be found, nor drop of rain nor boom of thunder. It was calm and peaceful… and bizarre, especially by England’s gloomy standards. The unnatural sun burned against his unguarded cheek and scorched his throat. His eyes watered and his sweaty skin clung to his clothes, suddenly tight and suffocating. It was no wonder Basilisks molted as often as they did, because Newt wanted nothing more than to do the very same right now.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to dive down deep into his suitcase and never come out, to forget everything that had happened. But as much as he hated this… as much as he wanted everything to go back to the way it was… he’d rather take this discomfort than endure the opposite.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“Newt?”

Dark eyes met his.

“I’m sorry,” Newt apologized with an awkward smile, “What were you saying?”

“What sort of wand did you get?” Credence repeated, shifting from foot to foot.

Newt’s smile turned genuine. He wasn’t entirely certain when it had started or why, but Credence had developed the rather particular habit of shuffling his feet or shoving his hands into his pockets whenever he didn’t want someone to know he was excited. He’d often look at the ground, hair covering his eyes as if suddenly demure or afraid… but Newt knew. Newt knew Credence as intimately as the back of his hand. He’d pioneered the study of all things Credence.

And that was precisely how he knew how much Credence loved every subject that was otherwise looked down upon when compared to more lucrative career paths, like becoming a healer at St. Mungo’s or an Auror for the Ministry. Wand lore, the history of magic, the culinary arts, magizoology… Credence had devoured every book he could get his hands on, jotting down notes and observations in the margins. It made Newt fall for him just a little bit more.

“I was thinking Maple or Pear…” Credence mused out loud, “Maybe a Hawthorn?”

“Fir, actually,” Newt answered, offering his wand to Credence so that he could give it a closer inspection, “Phoenix feather core this time, instead of dragon heartstring.”

“Those don’t get sold a lot,” Credence said, handling the wand more delicately than an Occamy egg. He brought it up to his eyes, looking down the end. “They’re notoriously picky.”

“You know a lot about wands.”

“I just—I just think they’re fascinating, is all,” Credence averted his gaze, the tips of his ears growing pink, “Just think… our entire society functions on the ability to use one. None of us would be able to use magic as easily as we do without it. It’d be possible, sure, but difficult. Wands and wizards, they go hand in hand.”

Newt twirled his hair.

If the wand makes the wizard, then what was he? He’d been without his for almost an entire year now. He’d been a burden, useless in every regard except one. His creatures had needed him and, he supposed, he had needed them too. Taking care of his creatures were the reason why he still pulled himself out of bed in the morning. They were all he had. But now… they had _Credence_ and he was already so much better at everything than he was.

Maybe he should just hang up the apron entire and retire—

No, he shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts.

How he could he be jealous of those eyes so filled with enthusiasm? How could he be jealous of someone who loved magic, despite everything that magic had done to them? How could he be jealous of someone that had known nothing but darkness and misery their entire life, being happy and free?

“One of these days we should invite Garrick over for tea,” Newt said, because the answer to ‘ _how could he be jealous?’_ was that he _couldn’t_ , “I think you two would enjoy talking together.”

“I don’t know…” Credence gave back Newt his wand and picked up their suitcases, “I feel like his eyes can pierce my soul, like he knows more than he’s letting on. I’m not sure I can handle an entire afternoon of that.”

“Garrick? Garrick Ollivander?” Newt laughed, surprised but non-judgmental, “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. I always saw him more like Father Time.”

“It’s unsettling!”

“Okay, okay. We won’t have him for tea then,” Newt grinned, “Where are we supposed to meet our transport?”

“ _Sugarplums Sweets_ ,” Credence answered, leading them forward, “They’re supposed to arrive with our portkey half past nine, so we have a little time before then.”

“Would you like to share a Pumpkin Pasty while we wait?”

Credence thought about it.

“And a Chocolate Frog?”

“And a Chocolate Frog,” Newt repeated.

“Then yes,” he grinned, “I’d love to share a Pumpkin Pasty with you.”

They slipped into the crowd. It was particularly congested that morning in Diagon Alley, which wasn’t all that surprising considering that it was a Saturday in summer. Of course everyone would be on holiday, perusing the shops with friends and family and having a grand ole time. There were a group of Americans gathered in front of _Broomstix_ , checking out the latest stock. Australians clinked mugs of butterbeer outside _The Leaky Cauldron_ alongside Germans and Swedes. Indonesians chatted with Peruvians over cones of ice cream, and Canadians watched a batch of loose chocolate frogs hop down the sidewalk alongside Argentinians. That much was normal this time of year. Loud, but normal.

What wasn’t normal was how every eye seemed to be on them.

_How can he walk like that? Pretending that nothing’s wrong?_

_Doesn’t he know what he did?_

_Why wasn’t he arrested?_

_He should be ashamed of himself._

_Don’t look at him, children. People like **that** should just stay at home._

Newt kept his gaze to the ground, face burning and silver scars exposed in the open daylight. The voices surrounded him, encapsulating him in a suffocating cocoon of scarlet spiderwebs. The WANTED posters had come down months ago but, it seemed, the memories had not.

_I didn’t do it I didn’t do it I didn’t do it—_

“In and out.”

_What?_

Dark eyes filled his. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped.

“Breathe with me, Newt. In and out,” Credence said, his voice soft and patient and kind, “Whatever you’re thinking, I want you to grab hold of it, look it in the eyes, and say in the biggest, loudest voice you can muster: _fuck off_.”

Newt choked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“S’what I tell Modesty when she gets that same look in her eyes,” he smiled innocently, “Did it work?”

Newt sucked in a breath. In and out.

“Yes, I—I think it did,” he eventually breathed, “My apologies. I—I get stuck in my own head sometimes. It’s a bit of a mess.”

“If it’s anything like the mess you leave outside your head, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Newt puffed out his cheeks.

“Oh hush.”

Credence laughed, but grew serious again a moment later.

“Do you need to stop for a moment? Mr. Mulpepper’s isn’t too far away. Maybe we could—”

“No, no,” Newt said with a small shake of the head, “I’ll be fine. I just… need to sit when we get there.”

They continued making their way through Diagon Alley, Newt sticking close to Credence and making idle conversation about the molting habits of Basilisks to keep himself from retreating back into his head until they came across _Sugarplums Sweets_. A refreshing coat of pink paint colored the exterior, a pleasant change from the toothpaste blue it had been when he was a child. Even the bench where he and Theseus used to snack on Fizzing Whizzbees on while Mother shopped had gotten the same treatment.

They hurried inside, Newt grabbing the window table guarding the suitcases while Credence went to the front counter to order.

Newt crossed his arms against the table and gazed outside.

It was funny how quickly life changed. He remembered when he’d first turned eleven and got fitted for his very first pair of school robes down at _Madam Malkins_. He remembered picking out brand new field journals at the start of every year at _Scribbulus Writing Instruments_ and saving up his summer allowance to buy himself a Self-Inking Quill. He remembered seeing Owl stuck in the far back of _Eeylops Owl Emporium_ —a beautiful barn Owl with an amputated foot—and begging his Mother to get him instead of the proud Screech Owl she’d been eyeing.

He remembered all of their September traditions. Theseus daring him to eat a handful of _Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans_ all at once. Playing Hide-and-Go-Seek together among the robe racks, even when they’d grown old enough to put behind silly childhood games. Stopping off at _Florean Fortescue’s_ with Leta and sharing one ginormous dragon ice lolly.

That had been routine. That had all been familiar.

And now, it had all changed. He had changed. Transfiguration classes and late-night homework sessions had been replaced with camping underneath the stars and coaxing an injured Jackalope out of her den. Quidditch practice and detentions with Leta had been replaced with training dragons and coming home to Credence running him a warm bath.

Newt didn’t do well with change.

But sometimes… well, it wasn’t that bad.

Credence returned with a silver tray, setting it down on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, sliding over a frothing mug of butterbeer in front of him, “I ordered us a set of drinks too.”

“Not at all,” Newt took a sip, purposefully giving himself a foam mustached because what was the point of having butterbeer if not to end up with a foam mustache? “I was feeling a bit parched.”

“Figured,” Credence sat down, “Ever thought of growing a mustache?”

Newt gestured to his face.

“No,” Credence snorted, “I meant a real one.”

“Butterbeer mustaches are real mustaches,” Newt insisted, breaking off a portion of his half of the Pumpkin Pasty and dunking it in his mug, “I prefer being clean-shaven. Facial hair doesn’t look good on me. Doesn’t feel too nice either.”

He took another sip of butterbeer.

“And what about you?”

“Always wanted a pirate’s beard,” Credence drawled, opening up a chocolate frog carton, “Big, burly mustache that you can twist the ends on. Maybe even braid some jewelry into it. Who knows? Maybe I can round up a ship and merry crew and sail the seven seas.”

“I thought you didn’t like the ocean.”

“Ah, that’s right,” he grinned, “I’ll settle for a goatee then.”

“Credence,” Newt placed his hands on the table, utterly serious, “If you grow a goatee, I will not—I repeat— _will not_ be able to stop snogging you.”

“You mean to tell me you already don’t?”

“Cheeky bugger,” Newt laughed and leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the chocolate frog, “Who did you get?”

Credence flipped over the card.

“Some wizard named Albus Dumbledore,” he answered and furrowed his brows, “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know, but he certainly is one handsome devil, isn’t he?”

“Professor,” Newt immediately stood up.

“Hello Newt,” Dumbledore greeted with a charming smile and set down his bags beside theirs, “Room for one more?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and immediately pulled up a chair. He pulled of his leather gloves one-by-one and folded them neatly on the table before stuffing them inside his coat pocket. He checked his watch, tapping the dial.

“Oh, it seems like we’re all early. Wonderful. I’ll have enough time to read the morning paper before we leave. I do like a good crossword to get the brain going,” Dumbledore chuckled and turned to Credence, “My apologies, I’m afraid we haven’t made a proper introduction. I’m Albus Dumbledore, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts.”

“I—I uhm… pleased to meet you,” Credence blinked, looking between him and Newt, “I’m—”

“Credence Barebone, I’ve heard,” Dumbledore tapped the side of his nose, “Everyone’s fascinated with you. You’re all the papers can talk about. Raised amongst Muggles all your life, developed an Obscurus, went against Gellert Grindelwald and survived. They’re calling you a miracle among men. I’m, frankly, honored to meet you.”

Credence’s hands curled.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Newt quickly interjected, “But we’re waiting for someone—”

“Ah, yes. That would be me.”

“I—what?”

“I’ve been summoned as witness for Grindelwald’s trial,” Dumbledore rubbed his chin, “If our testimony goes well, perhaps everything will be wrapped up in time for the new semester. However, arrangements have been made regardless, in the likely event that I can’t make it back to school in time. Professor McGonagall offered to come out of maternity early for me. Oh, you should see the photos of the baby, Newt. Little Minerva is going to become a fine witch someday, mark my words—”

“I’m sorry, Professor. This is just taking a moment for me to register,” Newt gaped, “You’re… coming with us. To Paris. To—to testify against Grindelwald?”

“Yes, that would be correct.”

“The Ministry has been trying to get you to fight against him since forever. Theseus has been trying to get you to fight against him since forever,” Newt said, “What made you change your mind?”

“Ah, well I’m not exactly going to be fighting against him, now will I?” Dumbledore slipped his hand back inside his coat pocket, “Not to say that gaining my testimonial didn’t come with certain… terms. Grindelwald may have been captured, but his followers still roam the streets—some that work in the very same government that’s trying him. I don’t trust anywhere they’d house us, safe or not, so we’ll be staying with a colleague of mine instead.”

Dumbledore placed a kerchiefed item onto the table and uncovered it. It was just a silver spoon, etched with the alchemic symbol for Pluto on the handle.

A portkey.

“Is that—Is that what I think it is?” Credence’s eyes widened, “Why is it shaking?”

“Because I do believe that it’s time to take our leave. Seems that I won’t be able to catch the morning crossword after all,” Dumbledore grabbed his suitcase and gestured to the spoon, “Shall we then?”

Credence’s hands trembled, and it was in that moment that Newt realized that Credence had never used a portkey before. They’d always used apparition or Muggle transport or some form of both for their travels before, but never a portkey.

“I’m with you,” Newt said softly and reached for his hand, “We’ll go on three?”

Credence hesitated, and took one final bite of Pumpkin Pasty, before grabbing their bags and slipping his hand into his.

“On three,” he said.

Newt smiled.

“On three,” he repeated, “One… two… three!”

They landed inside a townhouse, alchemic runes carved everywhere in stone. Glass beakers bubbled and fizzed on the dining room table with a mysterious red substance that possessed all the viscosity of mermaid snot. Vines hung from the ceiling and slithered down the walls as if alive. A pair of portraits were carefully leaned against the living room chairs, seemingly immersed in conversation. A peacock descended the staircase and trotted into the backroom.

Having been in Dumbledore’s office plenty of times before, Newt wasn’t all that surprised that any acquaintance of his possessed the same taste in décor.

“Albus? Albus, is that you?” an old man dressed in nothing more than a stark white night-robe shuffled down the stairs, “Albus Dumbledore! I dare say, I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Didn’t we have tea last week?”

“That was over ten years ago.”

“So… last week,” the stranger grinned, “Good to see you, old friend.”

“Not as good as it is to see you,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he turned around to introduce them, “Newt, Credence… I’d like you to meet my good friend: Nicolas Flamel.”

 

* * *

 

Newt laid in bed, watching the stars shoot across the ceiling. Everything that had transpired within the past twenty-four hours had been simply… _exhausting._ Being chosen by a new wand, discovering that his old DADA professor would be accompanying him to Paris, finding out shortly after that he wouldn’t be staying in a Ministry-endorsed safehouse but with _the Nicolas Flamel_ instead… it had overwhelmed him, and Newt had quickly found himself excusing himself, saying that he needed to go tend to the Fwoopers.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t sleep.

Newt lifted his wand into the air, frowning. He missed the old wand. It had served well before ultimately being snapped underneath Grindelwald’s feet. The broken splinters were still stuffed away in a drawer in the cabin, wrapped up in cozy familiarity. This wand though… It was cold. It was unfeeling. The mother-of pearl handle shimmered in the moonlight, just like scars wrapping around his hand.

The stars exploded.

Newt was running. From what? He didn’t know. He dared look behind him and found nothing but white surrounding him, sweeping him off his feet and mummifying him alive like an insect trapped within a spider’s web. He struggled, kicking and thrashing about, by the bands only tightened.

He closed his eyes.

But instead of darkness, all he found were clouds.

Newt screamed, feeling like he was being torn apart, and then he was falling up, up, up, up. Thestrals billowed past. Vermilion tentacles encircled him. Grindelwald’s white hair and matching white eye grinned down at him, opening his mouth and swallowing him whole—

Newt bolted up in bed.

Heart pounding.

A hand inside his— _Credence._ By some miracle, he hadn’t awakened. Newt watched him sleep, remembering a time when he’d thought that he could die happy staring into his eyes and curling his hands in his hair. And then, _he had._

Newt slipped out of bed.

He stepped onto the balcony, the midnight air chilling him to the bone within a matter of seconds. There really wasn’t much of a view from Flamel’s townhouse. They were nowhere near close enough to see the Eiffel Tower or even Sacré-Cœur. Or they very well could have been, but the neighboring buildings and fire escapes obscured them, so it was impossible to tell. Either way, Newt didn’t mind. He liked the anonymity. He liked knowing that he was alone.

He slumped down onto the cold concrete and pressed his forehead against the metal rails.

Newt hated how weak he was. He hated seeing Grindelwald’s face everywhere, how even after an entire year that he was still haunted by the memory of that place. He felt isolated. No one could possibly understand what he’d been through and what he was still going through. Which was ridiculous, he knew. His friends were veterans. Hortencia still couldn’t work late-nights at the shop. Credence still flinched at the word ‘miracle’ and Graves sneered at every instance of peas appearing on his plate.

Everyone around him had suffered, so Newt couldn’t let himself be defeated by his stupid, little Hufflepuff heart. He didn’t need to be taken care of. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t weak. He was Newt Scamander: dragon tamer and magizoologist, the man who had gone against Gellert Grindelwald and lived, with the scars to prove it.

He wasn’t supposed to be afraid.

A crow cawed, making Newt flinch.

Was it Munin? Or maybe Hugin… but that was impossible. Weren’t they supposed to be in custody too?

The crow landed on the balcony, letter clasped in its beak. Animal, not animagi.

Newt’s breath stopped.

He slowly reached forward and scratched the bird behind its neck, watching the ink-black feathers fluff up in response. Honestly, Newt should’ve realized Credence’s lineage sooner. His eyes were as black as his family’s crest, carrying a legacy of corvids and crows.

Newt took the letter from its beak and tore it open, tossing the envelope to the ground.

_Lunch at the Latin Quarter, 11 o’clock. Tomorrow._

_Bring him._

_—L. L._

His hands shook.

Leta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, late night postings, how I've missed thee. Since I'm posting this at basically one in the morning, there might still be a few tweaks to be made to this chapter but ! ! ! I wanted to post it regardless because I was just too excited to leave it in my drafts ! ! ! Poor Newt is still suffering from the events that'd transpired in the GMDS finale. Leta answered his letter. Albus Dumbledore is here ? ? ? How is Credence feeling about this ? ? ?
> 
> Tune in next time on Pomegranate Seeds, Winter Evenings to find out ! ! !
> 
> And, without further ado, the part we've all been waiting for: please leave your comments and constructive criticism below ! What are your predictions for this series? Is there anything you would like to see that wasn't in GMDS? I read each and every one of your comments and try my best to respond in a timely fashion. They're the fuel that makes this lean, mean writing machine function !
> 
> My Tumblr is: https://edelweissroses.tumblr.com/  
> Come interact with me ! I post mainly Fantastic Beasts content, crewt drabbles and art, and updates on the GMDS-verse !


	3. To the Stars Unchanging

Leta LeStrange did not fuss.

She did not worry. She did not get nervous, and she most certainly did not get excited. She wasn’t supposed to, not when others could be watching; and they always were, the bastards. Reporters for _Le Monde Souterrain_ poorly disguised as _les non-magiques_ were following her every move. Ever since she’d exited the metro that morning, they’d been on her tail.

She’d expected as much. This was her father’s domain, the veritable kingdom of the family LeStrange. Every spotlight in the city shined upon her. Upholding the family’s name, their noble lineage, necessitated nothing less than perfection.

She refastened her crystal brooch, shaped in the family crest, and crossed the River Seine.

Paris. City of love and brotherhood, of death and revolution. Not too long ago, these very streets had run red with the blood of angry men, and women for that matter, fighting for a change. Bourgeois and proletariat heads alike had filled the gutters. The haunting _shinks_ of the guillotine and gunshots lingered in the air like a vengeful phantom, reminding them that a hundred years may have passed but the scars remained. She could still smell the smoke in the air, mixed in with the near-constant scent of piss and spilt wine.

Leta hated this place.

She hated everything that it meant, everything that it stood for. _Le Bastille_ may have been liberated, but to her, Paris remained a prison. Every building, every bridge, every statue was just another set of bars caging her in, shackling her to society’s expectations of who she ought to be.

Perhaps that was why she preferred the countryside. Staying in their summer home, strolling through the flower-filled meadows amongst the quiet birdsong with nothing but her thoughts to accompany her, had always filled her with such… peace. Her fondest memories were out in the wilderness, or out at her step-mother’s farm. It was the only time where she could be free… where she could be Leta and not Leta _LeStrange._

Maybe that’s what had drawn her to Newt. A soulmate in every sense of the word—someone who had known her heart and mind as intimately as she had known his.

Leta tripped over an upturned stone, catching herself on the fountain’s edge before committing any unseemly folly. Newt. Her darling Artemis. They hadn’t spoken in forever and Leta couldn’t deny herself the girlish excitement she felt at the prospect of seeing her closest friend again. A smile tugged at her lips and she looked up, catching the sculptured gaze of St. Michel piercing into her.

Figures. Even the Archangel judged her.

How could she dare to be excited with such a large debt hanging over her head? How could she face Newt when it was _he_ r who had ruined their friendship? How could she face him when he had taken the fall for her mistake?

It should have been her.

She should’ve been the one expelled, not Newt. Lineage be damned. Who cared who her father was? Her bloodline shouldn’t have affected the actions taken against her, the consequences that she faced, but the content of her character. She had been reckless and stupid. She should have been judged accordingly.

But Newt… he was a Scamander. By definition, he was expendable and he knew this. Leta though? She was held to different standards. She had to set an example. She had to be better. And after that, she was.

But even with wings clipped, birds still dreamed of flight. Leta must have read Newt’s letter a hundred times over when she’d first received it. Even now, the parchment burned a hole through the fabric of her pocket. To say that she missed him was an understatement. To say that she was ready to face the consequences of her youth though… now, that was tricky.

And she was facing it two-fold.

Because Leta LeStrange was a monster. A monster who would rather have the world believe that little Corvus had disappeared when his fate had been far, far more concrete.

Leta stepped away from the fountain.

It reminded her too much of the ocean. Too much of falling silk.

She passed _Gibert-Jeune_ , her polished fingers brushing longingly across the paperbacks and hardcovers displayed atop the outdoor shelves, before stepping into the bustling epicenter of the Latin Quarter. Boisterous men flagged down bumbling tourists, speaking a mixture of French and English, advertising their discounted three course meals. Couples dared their paramours to try escargot, others gorging themselves on the macaroons they’d purchased down the street. Souvenir shops, patisseries, and more lined the alley, pulling the casual onlooker inside with a mixture of carefully calibrated sights, sounds, and smells. It was chaos, and she loved it.

Leta covered her nose and dove headfirst into the crowd.

She dared look behind only once, smirking wickedly to herself at the overwhelmed news-reporters not knowing what to do with the sudden onslaught of tourists crammed within narrow streets, and slipped unnoticed towards her destination. Leta entered the souvenir shop, tucked away in one of the more shadowy back-corners, and slipped down into the cellar entering the magical world of _Yousef’s West African Cuisines_.

The irony of the name wasn’t lost on her.

She took her usual seat in the back, and breathed.

In and out.

She could do this. She could face the past. She could face her mistakes. And maybe… just maybe… she could make things right.

“Leta?”

She froze.

Newt set down the menu from the table next to her and stood up. _Myrddin,_ Leta was losing her touch. Next thing she’ll know, the reporters from _Le Monde Souterrain_ will be walking straight through that door taking a million photos, slamming their faces across the front-page spinning stories about her hidden affair with her childhood beau.

Okay, maybe not quite that.

But how could she have not seen him sitting there when she’d walked in? And, more importantly, since when was _Newt Scamander_ , of all people, _punctual?_

She checked her wristwatch.

And five minutes early?

“Is—” he gestured to the empty table, “Is this seat taken?”

_Oh, Newt. Two could play at that game._

“Well, well, well…”’ Leta purred, leaning forward and crossing her arms over the table, “Now, what’s this? Do my ears deceive me or did a Hufflepuff just ask to sit with the Slytherins? What will your friends think?”

Newt smiled, just as he always did.

“I don’t have any friends.”

“A Hufflepuff without friends?” she snorted, “Next you’ll claim you’ve found a cowardly Gryffindor.”

“Now that you mention it—”

“Why’re you really here?”

“You looked lonely.”

 _Myrddin_ , every time. No matter how many times they replayed this same scenario over and over again, no matter how many times they reintroduced themselves, those three words still slammed hard into her gut with the same intensity as they had back when she was a first-year.

“I don’t know,” Leta drummed her fingers across the table, “Aren’t you scared I might bite?”

Newt suddenly beamed.

“No creature in this world bites unprovoked.”

“Alright, alright sit down,” she laughed and finally gestured at the empty seat in front of her, “It’s good to see you, Newt.”

“It’s good to see you too, Leta,” he pulled out the chair, “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know… same old, same old. You were lucky to get out of the Ministry when you did. M. Durand implemented an entirely new set of forms and regulations for us to hurdle through before we can do anything in my department. Get this: I have to fill out a Section 6-2 before getting a paper clip—a _paper clip!_ I’m supposed to be out there keeping the peace and I’ve just been stuck behind a desk. It’s just— _ugh_ ,” Leta leaned back in her seat, rubbing her hands over her face, “I swear, I’m going to stab someone in the eye if that means I never have to stare at another file again.”

“Have you considered putting in a transfer request?”

“Already handed in my application to Jeffers,” a strained smile crossed her lips, “I’ve just been waiting on approval.”

Newt frowned.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Waiting.”

“Not everyone has the freedom to do whatever they want, Newt,” Leta straightened, “I can’t just pick up and move like you did.”

“Oh, I—erm, sorry,” he quickly became flustered, waving his hands in front of his face, “I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I know you didn’t,” she sighed, decidingly changing the topic because, considering the grand scheme of things, her troubles weren’t all that important. Not really. “How’ve you been? Heard you were kicking up quite the stir.”

“Could say that,” Newt said, twirling his hair around his finger, “Could say the opposite too. Being on house arrest isn’t exactly all that exciting. Good thing is that I’ve been able to catch up on my book though. A few more tweaks and I think it’d be ready to be off to the publishers.”

“That’s fantastic,” and she meant it, “I have a former colleague working over at Obscurus Books. Might be able to get you an appointment.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course,” she said, “Friends have each other’s backs, no matter what.”

Awkward silence filled the room.

Newt coughed.

“So…”

“So,” Leta repeated.

“Speaking of Obscuri—”

“Where is he?”

“In the kitchen,” Newt answered, “I—I wanted to see you first if… if that’s alright.”

Leta raised a brow.

“You’d trust an Obscurial to be all by themself?”

“No,” he said, “But I trust Credence.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She closed her eyes and breathed out her nose.

“Do you know why Ministry work has become so unbearable lately? Why there’s been so many new rules and restrictions implemented in such a short amount of time,” Leta leaned forward, “Because Grindelwald fooled us. He used good people to do his dirty work for him, played us like a game of chess. Durand doesn’t want his followers to infiltrate us again. And now we can’t get a paper clip without prior authorization.”

Newt grew quiet.

“I knew people in your fight. People who came back… changed. Some who didn’t come back at all,” she continued, “When I heard you were in France… when I heard about that incident on the train… I didn’t know what to think. I was left in the dark, Newt. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if you were okay, if you needed help or—I knew nothing except that you called a rally, but you didn’t call for me.”

“Leta, I—”

She held up a hand.

“Rosalie was there. She told me everything.”

Leta turned over her palm.

“May I?”

Newt shifted uncomfortably, but slipped his hand into hers regardless.

“They’re, erm—they’re not as bad as they look,” he said quietly as Leta flipped over his palm, “They don’t even hurt. Well… not as much, uhm, anymore.”

She traced down the silver scars, mapping out a path of endless suffering, mostly in silence. At first glance, she could hardly believe them there. The scars were so small and unassuming. They were almost like a spider’s web, easy to miss unless illuminated by a certain slant of light.

Newt had died.

He had died, and she’d hadn’t been there to protect him.

“…you have a noble heart, Newt. Always did,” she murmured and dropped his hand, folding her own in front of her, “I want to meet him.”

“I—erm, what?”

“The Obscurial,” Leta said, straightening herself, “I want to get this over with. Bring him in before I change my mind.”

“I—okay, okay,” Newt fumbled over his words, much like he always did when overwhelmed. Glad to see that much hadn’t changed since they were kids. He stood up, perhaps faster than he’d intended given by how harshly he bumped his knee into the table, and waved his hands in front of him. “Just—Just wait right here and—”

He smiled awkwardly.

“Don’t bite.”

Leta couldn’t help herself.

“Don’t you know?” she quipped, “No creature bites unprovoked.”

Newt’s smile lost its awkwardness, transforming into a beautiful jewel that somehow always managed to lift her spirits no matter how down she felt. Because that smile was rare and precious, much like a diamond in the desert or an orchid in winter. It was a smile that he only gave to _her._

Leta started fiddling with her brooch when he left for the kitchen.

Newt meant well.

She knew he did and, by her own admission, he _had_ lasted far longer than anyone else she knew. Long enough that she was indulging in this little meeting of his despite knowing the futility of the outcome. Even before they’d become friends, he never once pushed her on Corvus. He never even mentioned his name unless she brought it up first. _Myrrdin_ , he hadn’t even brought it up in his letter! Reading between the lines had been far too easy.

But everyone cracked eventually… it was about time that Newt finally did.

A few moments later, the Obscurial entered.

Leta rose to her feet.

Considering that she’d only ever seen his face in pictures, the Obscurial somehow managed to look both exactly the same and drastically different from the man she’d been expecting. Ghostly white skin with dark hair and even darker eyes, however that was where the resemblance ended. This wasn’t the frightened boy or unstable monster that the papers had painted him out to be. This… this was a _man._ A man who had seen the worst humanity had to offer, and came out triumphant.

She could see now how Newt could’ve been fooled. If she hadn’t already known the truth, Leta probably would’ve thought him a LeStrange too. Those sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, those were all her father. That thick curly hair and kind eyes, Corvus’ mother.

But this wasn’t Corvus. It couldn’t be.

Not after what she had done.

_Monster._

“Are you…” the Obscurial swallowed, “Leta?”

“Yes.”

Leta braced herself.

Here it comes.

Just let the Obscurial claim to be Corvus and get this over with already. The sooner she could shoot him down, the sooner she could get back to her life. Maybe she could even manage to do so gently? Yeah, she owed Newt as much.

“I think—”

Breathe, Leta, breathe.

It’s almost over.

“I think—I think I might be your brother,” he finally said, “ _Hermes._ ”

Her blood chilled.

Leta quickly rounded the table and grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. He flinched back a bit, yes, but didn’t pull away allowing her to take a good, long look into his eyes. There were no signs of deception within them. Perhaps hesitation and worry, but nothing resembling the lying gaze of all the other scam artists trying to scrounge a claim at the family name. This was genuine. Damn.

“How do you know that name?” she asked, stern and unwavering.

“It—” the Obscurial’s eyes darted back and forth, uncertain, “It was written on the back of a photo—”

“Did you bring it with you?”

“Well, no…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Leta squared her shoulders, “Any photo, government-approved identification photos excluded, of Corvus as a child does not prove that he grew up to be you. You’re the Obscurial that terrorized New York City, weren’t you? Where are your adoption records?”

“I don’t—” he seemed nervous now, doubled from before, “I think they were… destroyed.”

“What did Corvus used to call me then? Where did we travel together?” Leta shot off question after question, rapid-fire, “What was his favorite thing to do here? Where was his favorite place to go? What was his favorite color?”

“I—I don’t… F—Fizzlewhiskers.”

Newt stepped between them.

“Leta, you’re overwhelming him.”

“My brother is gone, Newt,” she snapped, “Do you know how many people have claimed to be the long lost Corvus LeStrange? Do you know how many people have pitied me or tried to slink their way into my family, trying to gain their influence? Their power? If I am to claim someone as my brother, I need to be absolutely certain that it’s him. A good guess, a _feeling_ isn’t enough. I need proof.”

She headed towards the door.

“And I’m not convinced.”

Because Corvus was dead.

And she was the one who’d killed him.

 

* * *

 

Leta was right.

Newt walked silently beside Credence, shoulders drooped and legs stiff—almost in some sort of puppet-mockery of how normal people walked except this was real. This entire thing had been a disaster. What had he been thinking? Bringing Leta in and making wild accusations without anything to support it except for the inkling of a memory and far too many coincidences to be anything but truth. Newt had his confirmation on who Credence really was. Leta didn’t have hers.

And even if she did, she had still brought up an important point that Newt had overlooked: what would it take to convince the world?

“…I’m sorry.”

Credence glanced at him.

“For what?”

“I forced you into an unpleasant situation. Both you and Leta,” Newt fiddled with his scarf, “I should’ve thought this over more. I should’ve waited. But I—I was selfish. _I’ve never been so blinkered._ I wanted to see Leta again, more than I thought I would, and I wanted to reunite you with her. This—this wasn’t the happy ending I was looking for.”

“Newt—"

“Instead, I just about managed to hurt everyone that I care about,” he continued, shame eating away at his insides and throttling his heart. Leta had to have been so disappointed in him. “I’ve messed things up again. I can’t do that. Especially now that you’re here—”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“It’s not just me. I’m not on my own anymore. Whatever I do, it affects you too.”

“Newt,” Credence cut off his path, forcing him to stop, “Can you look at me?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Okay,” he said, soft as always, “Can I hold your hand then?”

Newt nodded and Credence clasped them between his. No matter where they were or what they were doing, Credence’s scars always gave Newt such… comfort. They felt like something akin to a childhood security blanket, rediscovered in a dust-covered box shoved into the furthest recesses of an attic, or like flying on the back of a Hippogriff at the crack of dawn, right before the world awoke and went about their day. It calmed him. It kept him grounded, even as the world fell apart.

He wondered what his scars felt like to him.

“What have you told me about worrying?” Credence asked.

Newt snorted.

“Using my own words against me, are you?”

Even though he couldn’t see it, he could _feel_ Credence’s smile.

“Indulge me.”

Newt breathed.

“It—All it does is make you suffer.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“…suffering.”

“There you go,” Credence squeezed his hands, “Newt, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you and I—This isn’t your burden to bear, but I’m glad you’re shouldering it with me. That doesn’t mean you have to shoulder it _for_ me.”

“I suppose I tend to do that,” he admitted, _begrudgingly._

“Y’know… it’s always one or the other with you,” Credence teased, “Overthinking or not thinking at all.”

“Well, I never!” Newt looked up only to find Credence laughing, “I take offense to that.”

“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation though, I find it endearing,” he continued to tease, “If not ridiculously insufferable.”

“You’re insufferable,” Newt pouted, slipping his hands back into his pockets whilst his ears burned, “Any other qualities of mine that you’d like to comment on while we’re on the subject? It’s a long walk home. You could probably find a couple more to tease me about.”

“No, that’s it,” Credence grinned, indicating the complete opposite, “Unless you wanna talk about the snoring for an hour.”

“I don’t—I don’t snore!” he spluttered, the heat spreading down to his cheeks, “I mean—sure, I’ve been known to, on occasion, to talk just the teensiest bit in my slumber, but I certainly don’t snore!”

Credence raised a brow.

“I don’t!”

“If you say so,” he shrugged, “Should probably tell that to the Erumpent though.”

“How is that relevant—” Newt’s eyes widened in horror, “No.”

“Turns out you don’t need special pheromones or a complicated courting dance to simulate an Erumpent’s mating call,” Credence drawled, “Or to be even remotely nearby for her to hear it.”

Newt’s entire face burned.

“ _Credence._ ”

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed, nudging his shoulder, “You’re just so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Just like how you don’t snore?”

“And you say I’m the insufferable one.”

“I never said that I wasn’t too,” Credence offered him his hand again, which Newt gladly accepted as they resumed walking, “Modesty wanted me to firecall her tonight.”

“I’ll set up the cabin fireplace.”

“She wanted you to join us.”

That caught Newt off guard.

“Is that so?”

“She wanted it to be right before bed so…” Credence tried to hide his smile, “I’d say to bring out your impeccable Erumpent impression—”

“ _Credence._ ”

“But she really wants you do a dragon this time, since you’re the expert and all,” he merely continued, “Ever since you two cooked breakfast for us over Christmas, that’s all that she ever wants to talk about now.”

“I’ll be sure to bring my best Hungarian Horntail impersonation then,” Newt beamed, honored, “I’ve been to ask, how did this tradition start between you two anyways?”

“Well… her second week with us, Modesty ended up locked in the Punishment Room for trying to escape one too many times. She looked so upset and I wanted to cheer her up… so, I snuck in. She tried to ignore me at first, but when I started singing…” Credence trailed off for a moment, presumably lost in the memory, “It was the first time I saw her smile.”

“You two are very close,” he said, “Sometimes I wish Theseus and I could be like that.”

“It’s the age difference, really. Sometimes I swear she feels more like a daughter than a sister,” Credence hummed fondly, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“I know,” Newt squeezed his hand, “So, where did you learn how to do that? The song, I mean. Was it something you just made up on the spot, or did you read it somewhere?”

“It’s something Ma used to sing to me.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been _that._

“She sang to you?”

“Mmm-hmm. Strangely enough, she never sang or mentioned it again after Chastity was adopted. But it’s the only good memory I have of her. Unless…” Credence suddenly stopped.

“Newt, I need to send a letter.”

 

* * *

 

Leta flopped backwards into bed and grabbed a pillow, pressing it against her face with a loud groan. It had been far too long of a day and, to make matters worse, she hadn’t gotten any work done. Well, any important work that was. Her transfer request was held up in processing and no new cases had really popped up for her to work on since everyone was bustling over the Grindelwald trial. Not like she didn’t understand, of course. She was just losing her mind, was all.

She needed to get out of here and fast.

Leta pulled the decorative diamond clip from her hair and tossed it to the floor, rummaging blindly through the nightstand for her silk bonnet. Maybe tomorrow she could talk to the Department Head and rush the request—

_Plink!_

Leta looked over the pillow and groaned.

“What does he want now?” she complained to the messenger owl as she forced herself from bed, “No, wait. Let me guess: My mother isn’t really dead and she’s been masquerading as an amnesiatic circus performer that has affinity for elephants.”

No, don’t be mean.

Leta sighed and opened the window.

“Sorry,” she accepted the letter, scritching underneath the owl’s neck for good measure, “Thank you.”

Leta seated herself at her mother’s secretary desk, passed down to her on her fifteenth birthday, and unlocked the top.  As much as she wanted nothing more than to toss the letter into the garbage and go to bed, something… strange told her otherwise. So, she slid the letter opener through the top of the envelope and unfolded the parchment inside.

A single sentence.

Legible and neat. Certainly not Newt’s handwriting.

_Miss Leta,_

_Would you like to swing on a star?_

Leta dropped the letter, covering her mouth.

Corvus was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LETA LETA LETA LETA LETA ! ! ! When the first Fantastic Beasts movie came out, I had no idea how much I would come to love her; but, then came Crimes of Grindelwald and the rest is history. It was so much fun finally being able to properly introduce her to the story. Poor Leta has been through so much and now she's having to face a past that she'd much rather forget. What really happened to Credence all those years ago ? Why does Leta want to leave so desperately ? 
> 
> Tune in next time on Pomegranate Seeds, Winter Evenings to find out ! ! !
> 
> And, without further ado, the part we've all been waiting for: please leave your comments and constructive criticisms below ! I read each and every one of your comments and try my best to respond in a timely fashion. They're the fuel that makes this lean, mean writing machine function !
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr at: https://edelweissroses.tumblr.com/  
> I post mainly Fantastic Beasts and Borderlands content, the occasional crewt drabble and art, and updates on the GMDS-verse ! Also, I was considering making a Fantastic Beasts/GMDS Discord server to better interact with my international readers. Would y'all be interested in something like that ?

**Author's Note:**

> To all my darling-iest darlings and loveliest lovelies, old and new, hello ! ! ! I promised you a sequel, didn't I? And a sequel you shall get ! I took most of January off from the GMDS-verse to celebrate completing my first ever series here on Ao3, but now I'm back and ready as ever to write some more wholesome crewt content ! What sort of adventures will the boys be getting into this time ? Well, you're just gonna have to wait and find out !
> 
> And, without further ado, the part we've all been waiting for: please leave your comments and constructive criticism below ! What are your predictions for this series? Is there anything you would like to see that wasn't in GMDS? I read each and every one of your comments and try my best to respond in a timely fashion. They're the fuel that makes this lean, mean writing machine function !
> 
> My Tumblr is: https://edelweissroses.tumblr.com/  
> Come interact with me ! I post mainly Fantastic Beasts content, crewt drabbles and art, and updates on the GMDS-verse !


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